How I Met My Angel
by blockodile
Summary: Short ficlets inspired by scenes from 'How I Met Your Mother' and involving, instead, the cast of 'Good Omens.'
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Gaiman. _How I Met Your Mother_ and everything associated with it belongs to Mr. Bays and Mr. Thomas (and probably some other people too). I own nothing and profit nothing.

**How I Met My Angel **- Episode 4, The Return of the Cufflinks

"Look, Crowley, there's something I have to say and there's no good way to say it, but we're both mature beings and I think that the truth is probably the best way. I don't think you're the one for me, my dear. I don't want to waste your time because I am terribly fond of you and I have the greatest respect for you, but this just doesn't seem right."

Crowley, who had until this point been enjoying dinner out with his friend of six thousand years, and boyfriend of three months, gaped at him. Aziraphale looked sheepish, and said, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not the _one for you_?" Crowley practically screeched. Heads began to turn in the restaurant, sensing the possibility of entertainment at the expense of someone elses discomfort.

Aziraphale tried to make placating gestures with his hands. They didn't work. "I did say I was sorry. I thought it would be the mature thing to do to tell you right away…"

Crowley's voice dropped to the pitch that indicated he was dangerously annoyed and considering jumping the border to furious. "It's the anniversary of my Fall."

Aziraphale winced and dithered. "Yes, I know I didn't realize that it was…it's just that we never talk about it and I can never remember…"

"It's the anniversary of my Fall and you know how depressed that makes me and now you're telling me I'm not the one for you?" It was barely a question, falling instead in the realm of the incredulous repetition that occurs immediately prior to a woman in a television sitcom humorously slapping the bumbling idiot who dared speak such foolishness to her.

Aziraphale, not having watched many television sitcoms, mistakenly tried to reason with him instead of responding with self-effacement. "Look, my dear, it really isn't that big a deal. I mean, look at the odds. It's like you lost the lottery."

Crowley continued to be furiously incredulous. "Are you trying to tell me that dating you is like winning the lottery?"

"No, no, no, that isn't what I meant," Aziraphale said, backpedalling with all his might.

"Alright," Crowley said, adjusting his glasses and allowing one moment of calm to wash over the table before he shouted, "So what's the problem?" while slamming his hands on the table and nearly upsetting their several glasses (and bottles) of wine. A murmur of appreciation for the emotion of the performance swept through the watching restaurant patrons.

Aziraphale winced again. "It's…I can't explain it."

"TRY!"

"It's…ineffable."

Heavy, angry silence fell. Even the other dinners felt it, and worried just a bit.

"Ineffable." Crowley deadpanned.

"Er…yes?" Aziraphale regretted his choice of words, but it was too late to retract it now.

"'Ineffable' is not trying to explain, Aziraphale. In case you haven't noticed, 'ineffable' is trying to pass off not having a clue. 'Ineffable' is not having the sense you were created with and pretending that was the Plan. 'In-bloody-effable' is why I can't get f-ed. 'Ineffable' is not why you are breaking up with me!" Crowley's voice had risen in volume during the tirade and now most of the restaurant was speculating on the fighting couple's sex life.

Aziraphale covered his face with his hands. This was not going as planned. "Oh, God, what's going on?" He groaned.

"Alright, maybe you need a little help. Here, what's going on is, we were friends for nearly six thousand years. Three years ago, you knew you were getting Recalled, and all you did was leave a message on my ansaphone. On the anniversary of my Fall. It took you three years to get back, and when you did, you tracked me down and asked me out _on a date_, and then decided to dump me for no reason three weeks later. Again on the anniversary of my Fall! That's what's going on, angel!" The patrons of the restaurant had begun to lose the thread of their entertainment and looked at each other quizzically.

"No, it's—it's not like that. I'm just—it's, it's, it's—" Aziraphale floundered.

"WHAT!" Crowley roared.

Channeling six thousand years worth of men who are really bad at break ups, Aziraphale responded, "I'm just, like, super busy right now."

There was a sound like a tea kettle right before it begins to boil. It was coming from Crowley. His eyes were glowing, and it could be seen even from behind his sunglasses. What followed was a fight of the sort that hadn't been seen since before the Arrangement. There was some shape-changing. Most of the patrons of that restaurant lived lives much more full of fear than previously.

Even after they patched things up, Crowley and Aziraphale couldn't set foot in that restaurant again. At least, not until after it got a new owner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Episode 9, Belly Full of Good Intentions**

Occasionally, Aziraphale likes to watch humans being good all on their own—it perks up an angel's spirit to no end, especially after a bad day of attempting to scare customers away from his bookshop before they could purchase any of the books. Today had been a spectacularly unsuccessful day, with Aziraphale being forced to _sell something_ or resort to physical violence, so he decided a trip to volunteer at a Soup Kitchen was the balm to sooth his tired soul*.

The trip was less soothing than he had hoped. It was a Sunday, for starters, and Sundays are prime volunteering days (perhaps because it allows for guilt-free church skipping), and Aziraphale found that he, shockingly, was not needed. That was wonderful, obviously, because it meant that there were lots and lots of humans with good intentions, doing good things, but it certainly put a damper on the angel's personal plans. His second surprise came walking past him in sunglasses and a strikingly out of place volunteer's t-shirt.

"Excuse me, coming through" the Crowley-esque being said as he brushed past.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked in incredulous astonishment.

"Well, uh…Hi, Aziraphale," the apparently-Crowley answered, with just a hint of embarrassment. Not enough, Aziraphale thought, given the ludicrousness of the situation. Of all the embarrassing places, and of all the embarrassing things he had caught Crowley doing over the centuries, this should have rated higher on the embarrassment scale than it did**.

"What are you doing here?"

Crowley smirked, "Oh, just the Lord's work."

"But you're a demon!" Aziraphale sputtered, as quietly as one could sputter.

"Well, sometimes people, or beings as it were, need to branch out. I think it's important to interact with the less fortunate," Crowley said smoothly, embarrassment entirely gone and replaced by amusement at his associate's confusion.

Aziraphale tried valiantly to rally himself. "This is some sort of joke, isn't it, my dear? You don't _actually_ volunteer here."

The universe, choosing today to block Aziraphale's every attempt at restoring normalcy, chimed in. A man in a matching volunteer shirt, but holding a clipboard to indicate superiority in volunteer rank, walked by. "Oh, Anthony, there you are. We need you out front. Can you show the new guys what to do?"

Aziraphale couldn't believe his eyes or his ears. "Wait. This is real? Not some sort of joke or hallucination? Cro-…er, Anthony actually does volunteer here?"

The universe snickered, and the clipboard wielding volunteer replied, "Every Sunday, all year long. He's our best volunteer." He glanced at his clipboard. "You, however, are not needed. We're full."

Aziraphale began to open his mouth, but Crowley cut in first. "It's okay, Kendall. He's cool."

Kendall sighed, "Fine. But I'm not promising anything. Wait here and we'll let you know if we need you."

Crowley smirked as flustered and incredulous vied to be expression of choice on Aziraphale's face. "I'd better get back out there. There's a lot of food to give out." He began to walk away. "And a lot of smiles!" He shouted over his shoulder before he turned the corner and was out of sight.

Aziraphale did not know how to deal with this development. Though he was a very strong proponent *** of the idea that Crowley must have a spark of goodness in him somewhere, this, he felt, was really a bit much.

Aziraphale was not very good at waiting. Eventually, he decided that there must be something he could do to help out and made his way over to a girl sorting food donations.

"Hello, I'm Ezra. Ezra Fell. Do you need any help with that?"

The girl smiled and stuck out her hand. "I'm Amanda. If you want, you can help sort through these donations. All you have to do is go through the boxes, take the really good stuff, and put it into this box."

Aziraphale, glad to be doing something, agreed to help and began sorting. After some time had passed, he asked, "What exactly is this box for?"

Amanda looked up from sorting. "Oh, that's for me. You can put it in my car."

Aziraphale paused. "In your car. Then you'll take it…?"

"Home?" Amanda replied. "We get so much extra food, no one can eat it all." She looked over the donated food. "Oh, Truffle oil. Score."

Aziraphale was appalled. "People donated this food thinking it was going to feed the hungry!"

"I know, and I'm starving," Amanda said with a smile.

And because the universe was a bastard, it was at exactly that moment that Crowley walked by. "Really, now. Helping someone steal from the homeless. For shame, angel." His expression was too amused by half and Aziraphale felt the need for drastic action. He spotted the clipboard carrier…Kendall, that was his name, and called him over.

"This woman is stealing…" he paused to glance into the box, "Portobello mushrooms from homeless people." He waited for human retribution to strike, feeling triumphant.

Kendall looked irritated. "Amanda! I called dibs on the Portobello mushrooms." Amanda merely smiled and shrugged.

"Those are for the hungry!" Aziraphale was approaching rage—sometimes people could really disappoint an angel.

"I know, and I'm starving," Kendall replied with the same self satisfied smile that guilt-free sinners throughout the ages had worn. Rage achieved. Aziraphale looked like he was about to make a scene. Crowley stood back to watch.

A sequence of events occurred which would later make Aziraphale blush with embarrassment to think on sober. He grabbed the bag of Portobello mushrooms and ran out into the dining area of the Soup Kitchen, with Kendall and Amanda chasing after him. Ripping open the bag, he began to throw the mushrooms to the homeless gathered there. "Mushrooms!" he shouted. "Mushrooms. Portobello mushrooms for everybody! Take them and run! They're very expensive!"

* * *

Crowley walked out of the Soup Kitchen, sans cheerful t-shirt, laughing so hard that tears formed in his eyes. He sat down next to a dejected looking Aziraphale on the street curb. "I can't believe you got _fired_ from volunteering at a Soup Kitchen!" Actually saying it out loud made him laugh even harder until he saw the I-will-smite-you glare that the angel was sporting. He took a few deep breaths to calm down, though a few stray laughs escaped even then.

"I can't believe you were even _in_ a Soup Kitchen," Aziraphale replied once his associate seemed fit to speak to. "What were you even doing there?"

A look of guilt skittered across Crowley's face. "Well…it may have been a sort of secret side project."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "We are supposed to inform one another of our ongoing projects, you know. For balance and all that."

"Yes, well, you see, the boys Downstairs have been getting stricter about the whole yearly soul quota thing and you know how much I favor broad sweeping influence to one-on-one tempting with contracts and all that. It's very effective and they really should appreciate my work more, but you know them." He paused. "Well, _you_ don't, but my point is that I need to secure some seriously tarnished, non-repenters or I'm going to be in a lot of trouble."

"So you thought you would start with the homeless? That seems rather…tacky."

"I wasn't tempting the homeless! …much. Do you know how easy it is to tempt the arrogantly righteous? Those volunteers, they come in and you can _see_ them wiping their consciences clean, like things operate on a points system. The guilt-free are not the guiltless as you well know. And they hardly ever repent. Why should they? They don't think they've done anything wrong. You heard them in there; they think they are entitled to that stuff. And it's just another few, small steps before they're mine and I've met my quota. Though I'll have to find another spot now that you've ruined my credibility." Crowley tried a light-hearted smile, but when he looked over, all he saw was Depression. "Hey, you missed your cue. You're supposed to say, 'you know I've got to thwart you now.'"

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed put his head in his hands. "What's the point? They'll probably do it without you interfering anyways."

Crowley fretted internally. He didn't feel guilty, that wasn't it. But he was used to things going a certain way and following a certain script, a very old and well defined script that ran: demon wiles, angel thwarts, both go out and drink, rinse, and repeat. When old cycles are broken, crises occur, and Crowley was not a fan of crises. He decided to stick to what the script should have been and simply hope— -er, anticipate that Aziraphale would follow along eventually. "You've successfully thwarted me this time, at the very least. Now that you've spoiled my evening, I think you owe me a drink." He stood and held out his hand. Aziraphale simply looked at him for a moment too long for Crowley to be truly comfortable. Then he nodded, though whether that was in agreement with Crowley's statement or at the conclusion of some inner dialogue was unclear, and took the proffered hand and ride.

Several hours later, Crowley was doing a drunken reenactment of Aziraphale's mushroom liberation and Aziraphale was red faced and nearly bent double with laughter. The universe shrugged and turned to find someone else to pick on.

* * *

* If he had actually had a soul that is. Angelic and demonic beings didn't, technically. They were something like walking souls, except not like that in any way whatsoever.

**For Crowley, at least. Aziraphale was obviously more embarassed about the orgies.

***Truth be told, the only proponent.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 17, Hell is Other Demons**

Sometimes, people actually have to go to work. Those "people" are occasionally demons named Crowley, who was required to pop down to Hell in person once every couple of decades in order to deal with various, tedious duties like paperwork and supporting his lies to Accounting with carefully crafted expense records. Crowley hated these mandatory visits. Not because he didn't like Hell (though really, who did?)—it was pleasantly warm, a plus for someone who sometimes spent time as a cold-blooded creature. Not even because he continuously attempted to scam Accounting for all he was worth (though really, who didn't?)—they presented a hassle, but he wasn't very worried about them catching on, because he had _computers_ to do his accounts, and computers didn't hold up in Hell very well.* No, what made Crowley truly loathe these visits was his coworkers.

He was standing by the water-cooler** desperately trying to ignore the inane chatter going on around him.

"So you're in your office, when knock-knock, who's there? It's Triskele looking for a little inter-office romance, know what I'm saying?"  
Crowley rolled his eyes and began to wish again that Hell wasn't a no-smoking area.  
"But wait, knock-knock, who's there? It's Chantinelle just returned from Earth and looking to reconnect. What do you do? Go."

It was always like this. Eventually, he wouldn't be able to stand it anymore and would wander back to his office and pretend to do centuries old paperwork and accounts using his abacus,*** but for now, he had to at least pretend to care. Otherwise, no one would answer his letters and he'd be on Earth and out of the loop (something more than a little dangerous for a demon as…negligibly demonic as Crowley). The "conversation" between his demonic coworkers continued gratingly on.

Eventually, one of them decided he wasn't contributing enough, and posed the stunningly well crafted scenario, "So, you're in your office, _on Earth_, right, when, knock-knock, who's there? It's Michael and his sword is _flaming_, if you know what I mean. But wait, back door, knock-knock, who's there? It's Raphael…wait…in a wheelchair. What do you do? Go."

It was angels every blessed time, Crowley thought, absolutely furious. And _always_ male-shaped ones.

He really _hated_ these mandatory visits.

* * *

*Because of the aforementioned heat, and the well-known feud between computers and heat in general.  
**That is what you do in an office. It should perhaps be mentioned that this was not, strictly speaking a _water_ cooler, but rather a "blood of the innocent warmer." Nevertheless, you get the general idea.  
***As we earlier discussed, computers, and technology in general, have not made big in Hell.

* * *

Crowley was in his office in Hell, staring at the corner office on the top floor of the atrociously gothic office building across the road through a pair of binoculars. He was engaged in this particular activity because he was taking part in a long standing feud with Murmur* and was awaiting the satisfying visual evidence of his latest prank…er, demonic retribution on the other demon.

Murmur's shriek of rage and disgust could be heard even in Crowley's office. He smiled like a snake** and most certainly did not giggle.

Later, after "finishing" some of the paper work he had to do before he could leave, Crowley decided he deserved a treat and ordered one of the high-functioning office imps to pick him up a coffee from the Starbucks*** downstairs. He was halfway through it when a carrier-imp**** flew through his window and dropped a hastily done woodcut on his head. Once Crowley had recovered from his mild concussion and was able to take a look at it, _his_ shriek of rage and disgust echoed through the building and across the gap between him and his nemesis. He flung the coffee onto the floor and wiped at his tongue frantically, as if that would reverse the fact of what he had actually ingested. He needed a plan to truly pay Murmur back for this. It needed to be devious. He sat down, narrowed his eyes, and turned on all his wiles.

Crowley entered his office later carrying a large cardboard box, and a smaller, much more secure looking box from which a low buzzing sound could be heard. He smirked to himself—his plan was perfect. He had managed to obtain a box full of the worst kind of imps, which, when released, would fly around Murmur's office being generally annoying and take a literal eternity to remove. He had come up with a careful and well-thought out plan for getting the imps from the very suspicious box into the harmless looking cardboard box, which he would then have delivered to Murmur's office, where it would be opened, releasing the plague of pests on the unsuspecting demon. Crowley was nearly vibrating with delight at his own cleverness.

His plan to get the imps into the cardboard box was a success. His plan to get the cardboard box to Murmur's office before the imps chewed their way out and spread all over Crowley's office was not.

He really, truly_ loathed_ these mandatory visits.

* * *

*The Demon of Music. It was actually because of him that the Bentley would play nothing but Queen. Unfortunately for Murmur, Crowley was adaptable and honestly, who can resist the dulcet tones of Freddy Mercury in the long run?  
**Not that he could really smile any other way.  
***Some might think, "Oh, so they've expanded even to Hell, then? What a terribly old joke." But no. Hell is, in fact, where they set up their _first_ shop.  
****Perhaps now is when the entities known as "imps" should be explained. Imps are physical manifestations of all of the bad feelings in the world. Some are higher functioning and can be used for menial labor. Some can fly, and are smart enough to be trained and have been turned into Hell's equivalent of carrier-pigeons, which is also Hell's equivalent of email. Some are small and annoying and fly around annoying the damned and the demons alike, and these are Hell's equivalent of children.


End file.
